


Eleven Months

by maryagrawatson



Series: Reset Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:05:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8527207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: After dealing with the Moriarty threat, Sherlock was still sent on his mission...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a slightly reworked snippet I posted some time ago. It is a prologue of sorts to a much larger story I have in the works and sets context for it.

Eliminating the Moriarty threat once and for all had only stalled Sherlock’s exile. This time, there would be no deus ex machina. Mycroft had surprised himself when he’d offered the packets to Sherlock that last night in Baker Street. But Sherlock refused. His friends were safe and he’d met the Watsons’ daughter. He could do one more thing for them and teach their daughter accountability for one’s actions.

As predicted, Sherlock was lost to them just past the six-month mark. He’d successfully completed his mission and passed off his intelligence, but failed to meet up at the extraction point. That wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise was that they had yet to receive confirmation that Sherlock been caught and executed. There wasn’t even a whisper of a rumour. It was as though Sherlock had dropped off the face of the planet.

Instead of sleeping, Mycroft would lie awake at night imagining his brother on his knees, gun pressed hard into the nape of his neck.

Those were the better dreams.

Then, there were those where Sherlock would be in a mass grave, partially hidden by the other bodies around him.

That one still wasn’t so bad.

Not when compared to images of his little brother being tortured or burned alive or left on a rack to broil under a harsh summer sun.

For five months, Mycroft had not slept soundly without medication.

The consensus was that, for now, Sherlock would be treated as missing in action. Mycroft kept up the rent on his flat, Mrs. Hudson dusted and Hoovered once a week, and the Watsons made Sherlock real to their daughter by playing for her recordings he’d made before leaving.

They would all, of course, have to move on at some point, but that time hadn’t come. Even Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of false hope and of daydreams of his brother strolling into his office high on some impossible case for the Metropolitan Police. He wasn’t normally prone to such fits of fancy, of course, but this was his baby brother.

It was early January, just past Sherlock’s fortieth birthday, and they’d all gathered the day prior at Baker Street to mark the event sombrely. The hole in all their lives was still too raw and open.

Mycroft had accepted a slice of cake to take with him and is thinking of having it with a nip of brandy to toast his brother when Anthea enters without knocking. He looks at her, puzzled. She’s flushed and holding a manila folder.

 “Oleksandr Panchyshyn,” she says without preamble.

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. He’s a top military commander in Ukraine who, thanks to Sherlock’s work, had been captured the month prior and is being held for interrogation.

“What about him?

“We’re being offered a trade.”

“They think they have something valuable enough for us to release Oleksandr Panchyshyn?”

“Well, he’s already given us quite a lot. He might be worth more back on the street.”

“Out with it Anthea, what are they willing to trade?”

She swallows hard and pulls a photograph out of the folder, placing it on Mycroft’s desk.

Mycroft gives it a quick glance and then his vision tunnels.

His next conscious thought is that his head is between his knees and that Anthea is holding his shoulders, encouraging him to take deep breaths. He’s still in too much shock to be mortified. Slowly, he raises his head to look at the photograph again.

Sherlock.

Hair and beard long and matted, they way they’d been in Serbia. Naked but for loose drawstring shorts. Filthy and thin to the point of emaciation. Not obviously hurt, but his eyes are dulled by fatigue. Kneeling with his hands tied in front of him.

Hands that are holding up a newspaper showing the day’s date.

“We’re ‘considering’ their offer, but are going through with it, of course. We’ll need Panchyshyn back on the street at some point, and with his work three years ago and again this year, Sherlock is a valuable enough asset to make the trade plausible.”

“When?”

“In three days. And before you say anything, no, they don’t want you anywhere near this.”

Mycroft shakes his head, as though to clear it. “Yes, of course.” For Sherlock to get his pardon, there can be no hint of brotherly involvement.

Seventy-five hours later, Mycroft receives a text. “Duckling successfully retrieved and clear of Ukrainian airspace.” A second passes and another text comes in. “Exhausted and malnourished, but otherwise in good condition.”

Mycroft thanks a god he had not believed in until this moment and for a second actually believes he will indulge himself with a fit of relieved weeping.

Thankfully, the moment passes. He picks up the phone

***

John Watson is setting the table when the phone rings. He checks who’s calling and promptly collapses in his chair. His wife Mary turns from the hob. “John?”

“It’s Mycroft.”

“Oh, God.” John stares at the phone for two more rings. “You need to answer it, darling.”

He let’s out a sob and scrubs at his eyes, then clicks the phone on. He knows the older Holmes will immediately deduce his state of mind, so he doesn’t even try to hide the tremour in his voice. “Mycroft?”

“He’s safe, in good condition, and on his way home.”

Those words are so unexpected that they don’t register. Later, John would laugh at having a truly Sherlock moment of his brain rebooting. “Wait. What?” he manages after a moment.

“He was exchanged for one of our prisoners a few hours ago. He’ll be on English soil in a couple of hours. Have your lunch and then make your way to Baker Street if you like. He’ll be exhausted but I suspect he won’t want to rest until he’s seen all three of you.”

John lets out a hysterical giggle and looks up to see Mary eyeing him quizzically. He clicks off the phone and manages to squeak out, “Sherlock’s okay and on his way home,” before bursting into tears.

***

Mycroft decides to tell Mrs. Hudson in person, knowing full well that it will involve getting his suit wrinkled.

***

When Mycroft gets a text that Sherlock is ten minutes out, Mrs. Hudson puts on the kettle and assembles a plate of previously made sandwiches. She hurries downstairs to greet him. Mycroft is relieved when Sherlock finally steps into the sitting room. While his brother is incredibly thin, he’s standing straight, walking comfortably, and even though he is obviously fatigued, there are no overt signs of distress. He’s already managed a bath, a rough haircut, and a shave. The grey jogging costume he’s wearing does nothing for his pale complexion, but, really, he looks much better than he did in the days, and even weeks, following Serbia.

Sherlock and John embrace, then Sherlock and Mary. Mycroft earns himself a handshake, more than the curt nod and sarcastic greeting he’d expected.

“Is she here?” Sherlock asks as Mrs. Hudson gently pushes him into his chair and hands him a cup of tea and the plate of sandwiches.

Mary smiles. “She is. She’s down for a nap in your bed. I’ll go fetch her when you’ve eaten.”

Sherlock picks up a sandwich quarter and then puts it down again. “What’s her name?”

That earns him a grin from John. “Scottie.”

“What? I thought you weren’t naming her after me.”

“We weren’t,” Mary laughs. “But it’s the only name we could both agree on!”

“Well, thank you,” Sherlock says sincerely before tucking into his meal.

They let him eat his fill, Mrs. Hudson replenishing his tea twice and passing him biscuits. “Oh, that was good,” he says, putting the plate down. “I’m all right,” he assures them. “Really, I am. I knew I was being saved for an exchange or a public execution because I was treated better than the other prisoners. Oh, I got roughed up a bit near the beginning, but there was nothing akin to torture. I actually got better food and water than the others, believe it or not. I never got the dysentery that was going around. I’m just exhausted and glad to be home. Mycroft, nobody has told me anything, though…”

“You will be fully debriefed in a few days, but consider yourself on a two-year probation. During this time, you will submit yourself to random drug testing and a few other minor conditions."

Sherlock swallows hard. "Okay."

"And if you commit another indictable offense at any time, even beyond your probation, you will never see the light of day again."

Sherlock lets out a deep breath. “Got it. Fair enough.”


End file.
